Each time I asked her to move it, she offered a different excuse.
Finally, she turned around and studied my short silver hair.
“When was the last time you had hair like mine?” she asked. “Fifty years ago?”
I looked at her calmly.
“My hair was quite lovely during the Reagan administration.”
She laughed.
“That’s ancient history!”
Perhaps it was.
But I had lived long enough to understand something Brittany had not yet learned: being young is not the same thing as being wise, and looking beautiful is not the same thing as being beautiful.
I had raised three children, worked for decades, buried my husband, and learned how to keep going through grief that sometimes felt heavier than the world itself.
I did not envy Brittany.
I felt sorry for the idea she seemed to have of herself.
Still, feeling sorry for someone does not mean allowing them to mistreat you.
